


the more things change

by abvj



Category: Leverage
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abvj/pseuds/abvj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>An outline of everything that happens in-between.</i> Set post 4x08, <i>The Boiler Room Job.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	the more things change

On Monday, Sophie sits perched on the counter near the stove, Nate nestled between her knees as he kisses her hard and deep, fingers grazing the curve of her jaw, the hard line of her collarbone. He palms the swell of her breast through the fabric of the dress she wears just because she knows the short length of it drives him crazy. Just because she knows he'll spend most of the day thinking about her long legs, the smooth skin of her thighs, and how easily it would be for him just to slip his fingers underneath the hem and between her legs – much like he is now. 

Breakfast simmers on the stove, forgotten, and she moans softly, his tongue moving against hers, pressing against the roof of her mouth as his grasp tightens around her legs, pulling her close to him. 

Sophie laughs a little, surprised, and he smiles against her mouth widely, eager, wet, _warm_. Her hands are everywhere at once – slipping under the cotton of his shirt, teasing the waistband of jeans, pressing against his back just in an effort to get him closer. He abides, lips moving from her mouth to her ear, teeth sinking into the lobe, to the soft skin just underneath. Sophie shivers, hums something lovely in the back of her throat as his fingers tease her through the cotton between her legs, first one, then two fingers pressing solidly against her. She arches her back, angles for more friction, reaches for his jaw and leads his mouth back to hers. Kisses him as if she's swallowing him whole and loves the noises he makes, soft and needy as she does. 

And then his phone rings. And rings. And keeps on ringing, threatening to vibrate right off the counter as it does so. Nate mumbles something unintelligible against her mouth, reaches to silence it, his lips never leaving hers, his tongue flicking against hers with precision, with want. For a moment they work with it, ignore it, Sophie crossing her legs at the ankles around his waist, slipping her hands between them, fingers down into his jeans, brushing the length of him as she drags his bottom lip between her teeth. 

But then the phone rings again, the shrill sound breaking through the haze, and just like that, the moment starts to fade. Sophie sighs and Nate curses, his _Damn it, Hardison_ angry and curt as he answers the call. 

"This had better be good," he mumbles into the phone, teeth gritted, and she has never been above playing dirty so she leans backwards, resting her weight on the heels of her hands, allows her dress to slip up her thighs that much farther. She drags the heels of her stilettos up and down the back of his calves. Pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. Watches Nate close his eyes, pinch the bridge of his nose as he ends the call by barking out a few orders and tossing the phone to the side haphazardly. 

"Bad news?" she asks and he looks at her then, drawing in a harsh, ragged breath. His palms smooth up the long line of her thighs wistfully. He groans inwardly. 

"There's a thing," he starts, then pauses, eyes meeting hers apologetically. "We've got to go."

Sophie just smiles, mumbles _there usually is_ as she reaches forward to wipe at the bit of lipstick near the corner of his mouth. 

 

 

 

On Tuesday, they spend most of the evening dressed up with nowhere to go. 

Sophie wears a green Versace, one of her favorites, and Nate brings up Carnivàle and gondola chases as he fiddles with his tie. She has always held a fond appreciation for a man who could wear a suit, a man who didn’t allow the suit to wear him, and Nate, when he chooses to, cleans up quite nicely. Tonight he wears black pants and jacket with a crisp white shirt – the suit she made him buy ages ago that was tailored and cut exquisitely, fitting him perfectly. It makes her a little bit wet between her thighs, seeing him like this – all put together – and she licks her lips as she watches his fingers clumsily thread the tie around his neck. 

She doesn’t tell him this, of course, only comes up behind him in his tiny bathroom, fingers grazing his as she undoes his mangled tie and swats his hands away. With a grin twisting near the left corner of his mouth he acquiesces, hands falling to sweep over the silk covering her sides as her hands twist and mold the fabric of his tie into a perfect knot. 

When she’s done, he turns to face her, leaning forward to sweep his lips across hers softly. 

“You look nice,” he murmurs affectionately, almost sweetly, fingers tangling in the lose hair framing her face, sweeping against her cheekbone, her jaw before falling to his side. 

Smiling, she mumbles, “So do you,” just as Parker’s voice breaks the moment, her screech of excitement making them wince as she announces, _we’re in_ over comms. Eliot responds with a grunt, his _took you long enough_ only slightly teasing. His comment naturally starts Hardison on a tirade about how nobody appreciates what he does, how nobody respects Lucille, and the cycle burns continuously, halfhearted insults thrown left and right. Sophie breathes and steels herself for a long evening. 

Ignoring them, Nate leans in again and her eyelashes slip against her cheek as he kisses her quietly, her palms reaching up to rest against the lapels of his coat. She can feel his heartbeat under her palm.

“Go get ‘em,” he says. 

As she leads they way, his fingers press firmly against the small of her back. 

 

 

 

On Wednesday, Sophie allows the mark's fingers to graze her knee, settle against the warm skin of her upper thigh. She leans forward, laughs just the right way, murmurs something deliciously dirty and seductive into his ear, and calls an audible over comms that sends the team spiraling in unplanned directions and pushes them all to their limits.

It works, of course, because she is who she is and she's always been the one people are afraid of a world over. 

By the end, the mark is properly hooked, wrapped so tightly around her finger that she could probably get him to hand over every single possession he owned _and_ his grandmother's priceless antiques without so much of a second thought. Nate doesn't see it that way, though. His sharp inhale, his anger comes quick over the comms immediately after she changes the game plan, and by the time she returns to his apartment later that night for the team's routine debriefing, it hasn't dissipated in the least. She's not surprised to find the space empty except for him, and as she shuts the door behind her with a soft click, she eyes him standing near the staircase, arms folded across his chest. 

Nate starts in on her immediately, his _what the hell were you thinking?_ spewed fast and angrily out of his mouth. Sophie has never been one to stand down to him, to anyone, and she matches him inch for inch, her _it's nothing you haven't done a million times before_ just as angry, just as bitter and loaded as it leaves her mouth. They fight and they scream and Sophie shoves him once, _hard_ , her palm flat against his chest as he stumbles backwards in shock, in sheer disbelief. 

The words _uncontrolled_ and _withholding_ and _irresponsible_ are thrown back and forth between them like grenades. Sophie stomps her way up the staircase to his room, the click of her heels leading the path, and slams the door behind her only to have him swing it open right afterwards so hard it rattles in the frame. She kicks off her shoes, starts removing her earrings, tossing them haphazardly onto the dresser with the rest of her things that have collected in his space over the past months. He watches from behind her, silent, seething as she rolls down her pantyhoes and throws them to the side, lets down her hair. 

"They – Parker, Hardison – they could have gotten hurt. _You_ could have been hurt, Sophie. Do you get that? Eliot wasn't there. I wasn't there –" 

Her eyes roll before catching his in the mirror. "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Nate," she reminds him testily and it's almost as if something in him snaps then. He's behind her in a mere second, his body pressing against her back, pushing her against the edge of the dresser harshly, his fingers rough on her jaw as he twists her head towards his and claims her mouth aggressively. 

Fighting for control, Sophie pushes back against him, twists until she's facing him, until she can pull his shirt out from the waistband of his pants, slip her fingers underneath and dig in, nails leaving ugly streaks in their wake. They kiss and push and shove each other angrily, Nate's hands wrinkling the fabric of her dress, pushing it upwards, twisting and ruining the silk under the tough of his fingers. There's a rip of fabric, his hands sliding between her legs, two fingers pushed roughly inside of her. She gasps, the _fuck_ getting caught in her throat as he curls his fingers and presses his thumb against her clit and suddenly she can't think, can't breathe. His mouth is on her neck, on her shoulder, her dress torn at one of the straps and falling down.

And then he stops, fingers still inside of her, and she squirms and whimpers and shifts her hips in search of friction. His name spills from her lips, almost desperate, the syllable smooth, barely cracking along the edges. 

“Beg,” he says, voice low, hollow against her throat. 

Her mouth curls defiantly. “No.” 

Nate kisses her hard, almost bruising, lip between his teeth until she tastes blood. She feels his smile in her teeth and before she knows what is happening, before she can protest, he has her turned around again, his mouth still on hers. Her neck is twisted at an almost painful angle, but his fingers, slick with her, start to move again – curling in and out, in and out, and one of his legs presses hers apart. 

She's always known, really, that Nate was a bigger asshole sober than he was drunk, but what she didn't know, what she only fully realized when they started doing whatever it is they've been doing since San Lorenzo, is that sometimes she likes it. 

Sophie likes the way his mouth slides from hers to the bone of her shoulder, biting at the puckering of skin there, the scar he gave her years ago. She likes the feel of his hands spreading her legs apart, the way his fingers dig into her skin, branding her with his touch, and the sound of his pants sliding down against her legs with a click. She likes him like this, sometimes, when he's needy and desperate for her. His cock nestles against the curve of her ass, between her legs, then inside of her, finally, moving fast and hard, so much so that her arms shake as they brace against the dresser in an effort to carry her weight because her legs are numb, almost boneless already. 

Nate watches them in the mirror, his hands reaching to cover hers, fingers encircling her wrists tightly, trying to hold her in place. She lets him, makes a soft sound in the back of her throat, something like a whimper and a moan all rolled into one and loves the way he says her name over and over, _sophie, sophie, sophie_ like he’s trying to anchor himself, trying to keep himself from coming apart too quickly. 

When she meets his eyes in the mirror she mutters _slow_ , but it's only because she doesn't want to come yet. 

 

 

 

On Thursday, after their morning briefing, Nate hangs back in the kitchen and waits with Sophie as her teakettle warms. In the background, Hardison and Parker are arguing about something insignificant. Eliot plays referee while trying to remain neutral. Sophie has a meeting with the mark later that morning and if all goes as planned, they will have his millions in their offshore account by dinnertime. Still, the waiting puts them all a bit on edge. They've never been the most patient group of people in the world. Sophie listens halfheartedly to the playful argument unfolding across the way, smiling at the familiarity, and stills when Nate reaches for her, fingers brushing over the small bruise on her wrist where the bones collide. 

Her body aches from the night before, the muscles of her thighs worn, but it's the good kind of ache, the kind of ache that hums under her skin, makes her feel alive, _wanted_. 

Already she's thinking about the next time they can be alone, wants him between her legs, his mouth on hers. She longs for the feel of his weight above her, against her, and she smiles out of the side of her mouth when his fingers fall from her wrist and instead curl around the subtle curve of her hip. 

Somebody clears their throat, loudly, and both she and Nate snap their heads up to find Eliot watching them, lips pressed into a thin line. His eyebrow is raised. Hardison and Parker continue to argue in the distance. 

"Seriously?" Eliot mutters, but there is a smile hidden underneath somewhere, that usual edge to his voice absent. 

The teakettle whistles and Sophie laughs softly, unaffected. The tips of Nate's ears turn the faintest shade of pink, and she knows him, knows that he's fighting his body's natural urge to recoil, to shy away from her completely. 

Still, he doesn't let go. 

 

 

 

On Friday, Sophie stirs to the steady cadence of rain dripping against the window and Nate's mouth between her legs.

The pads of his fingertips slip against the skin of her thighs, traveling _up up up_ and tracing bone and muscle like Braille. His eyes are closed as he breathes both her and the moment in because he knows her, knows what she likes, knows what she needs. Nate knows the feel of her from muscle memory alone and there is nothing, _nothing_ sexier to Sophie than that and the arousal coils warmly inside of her as a result. With his shoulders, he presses her legs apart at the knees, fingers hooking around the edges of her panties and slipping them down her legs with care and leisure. She gasps a little as she watches his tongue flick against her, and his eyes move upwards to meet hers. 

Nate pulls away just slightly, presses his lips against the skin of her inner thigh. "Hold still," he says and she protests on reflex, out of sheer instinct, shifting beneath him, legs bending at the knees. Her fingers reach for his hair and tangle in the mess there, pulling just a little. He smiles and she relaxes, his breath warm and solid against her as he mumbles, "Good girl." 

Her eyes roll out of habit, but her smile is wide. "Smug is not an attractive look on you," she tries, but his fingers and mouth are teasing her again and it comes out as a sigh as her legs open themselves up wider for him, her fingers tightening in his hair as he slips his tongue against her clit, teasing. 

"You like it," he murmurs, more of a hum that she feels deep in her bones, and any response, any witty remark she had prepared gets caught in the back of her throat as he curls a finger inside of her and she loses all ability to form coherent thought. 

His pace is smooth, relaxed, painstakingly slow and Sophie has always hated this about Nate – how much of a morning person he can be. He carves his name into her body with his mouth, his fingers and breath. The solid, warm flicks of his tongue against her causing her to twitch, her body jerking against him at every turn. Nate reaches up, pushing her down into the mattress with a steady hand against her belly as his fingers slowly stretch inside of her, as his able mouth pushes her closer to the edge, opening her wholly to him. 

She loves to watch him like this and she does now, her eyelids heavy, lashes slipping against her cheeks every so often as she forgets how to breathe, as Nate pushes and pulls at her until she's splitting at the seams, the pressure sparking and mounting, humming along her spine. 

Sophie was never this easy before him, but Nate knows her, has studied her, memorized the lines of her body, and knows when to push and when to pull, knows the meaning behind her sighs and the weight of each breath. When she is close, right on the edge, his teeth graze a spot he long since discovered she loves, says her name, the syllables soft, almost a sigh. That's all it takes, really, and his mouth and hands continue lazily, don't stop as she goes over, as her fingers tighten in his hair, dig into the smooth skin of his shoulders. Her back arches, body shaking and pressing itself against his mouth, and the line of her sight blurs.

After, it takes her a moment to realize he's talking. 

"You hear that?" he asks, sliding back up her body. He's no longer smug, just content, _satisfied_ and when he kisses her she can taste herself there, feels his smile curl at the edges of his mouth. When she pulls away, her _hmmm_ is soft and drawn out, her lips following the line of his throat before settling at the base as she buries her face in the slight dip where neck meets shoulder. She's not really paying attention until Nate presses himself between her legs, both of them gasping a little at the stretch, at the fit of them together. "It’s silent downstairs," he breathes finally, slowly like he's trying to catch his breath. 

Sophie laughs and Nate's pulse quickens under the soft touch of her lips against his throat.


End file.
